The Joker: Mansion
by DonnaJossee
Summary: A look into the Joker's mind and some of the things that motivate his evil doings.


_Insidious is blind inception_

 _What's reality with all these questions?_

 _Feels like I missed my alarm and slept in_

 _Slept in_

 _Broken legs, but I chase perfection_

 _These walls are my blank expression_

 _My mind is a home I'm trapped in_

 _And it's lonely inside this **mansion**_

 _— Fleurie ft. NF, Mansion_

I sat in complete silence as Batman stared at me from across the interrogation table.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" He asked lowly and I grinned, my eyes staying on the table in front of me.

"I'm so sorry about Robin." I tell him. "I really regret how I handled the situation so carelessly." I add. "I really shoulda used carbon steel instead of iron…it's much more durable when it comes to beating children." Laughter fills the room and he's suddenly reaching across the table and grabbing my collar, his fists curling angrily. "I really hope you didn't man-handle my dearest Harley like this." I hiss to him and he tightens his grip.

"You killed a child and she helped kidnap him. Do you want me to give you a pat on the back and congratulate you for hitting a new low?"

"I really don't enjoy some of the things I do, Bats. Believe it or not, it did kinda bother me that the baby bird had to go the way he did. It was so disappointing how fragile he was. Boring, really."

"I am sending you back to hell." He growled and I threw my head back in a shrill of giggles just as Gordon stepped into the room.

"No, you're not." He tells Batsy. "Put him down."

A smug look comes to my face and he reluctantly lets me go.

I'm thrown back in my chair as Gordon puts his hands on the table and leans forward.

"Your little girlfriend fessed up, Joker."

"She's covering for me. She has nothing to do with the kid kicking the bucket. Leave her outta this." I tell him, leaning back in my chair and he exhaled and shook his head.

"And if I don't? What exactly can you do from prison which is exactly where you are going."

"If you touch a hair on her head I'll make the little bitch's death look like a playground compared to what i'll do to you." I threaten him and he scoffs.

"Threatening an officer of the law," he opens my file and jots something down. "Another charge I can stack against you."

"Bullshit." I cut my eyes at him.

"Oh, no not bullshit at all. Your little girlfriend's racked the billiards and you're about to shoot every single one of them into my pocket. So I suggest you think very carefully before you speak."

"You don't like me." I say to him. "Completely understandable. I mean, if someone crippled and exploited my daughter I'd be pretty pissed off, too." I shoot and now he's the one who's about to come across the table and I chuckle as the bat holds him back.

A lot of people believe I am mean. Cruel, merciless, belligerent, manipulative, among other things. The truth is, I wouldn't know what the hell else to do or be. You see, my soul purpose is to remind people that life itself is a punchline. This city is a fresh ball of clay and I'm a sculptor. Whatever vision I have, whatever concept I imagine, I create it using people as examples.

Knocking people from their high horses is what makes me truly happy. Making them break, watching them snap. I had already gotten Harley where I needed her, now I was working on the Bat and Gordon and I could tell I was almost done with the both of them.

I had beaten Robin to death, and within the next week I'd shot Commissioner Gordon's daughter, Barbara, right through the spine and paralyzed her from the waist down.

No one in Gotham had the guts to actually try to break the "protectors" of the city. When they do, they come after them individually. Something I learned over the years is that if you really want to strike a nerve with someone, you go after who they have in their inner circle, not them themselves.

I wasn't always like this.

I didn't always enjoy the thrill that came with creating what I create. I didn't imagine the addictive taste for blood splattering on white walls and the look of pure terror.

I found a place by doing the unconventional.

When I was younger, I was asked, would you rather be feared or respected? The simple truth of the matter is that people fear me so much that they subconsciously respect me just to avoid getting hurt.

I'm like the monster under the bed. I only appear when no one else is looking but the child. Adults would like to think I'm not there but the children are so damned convinced I am, that even parents are second guessing their assurance that I'm non existent.

Everyone in this city knows I'm lurking about, getting ready to attack one of them, kill them, yet despite the constant feeling they have within them, screaming at them to stay alert, they continue to make themselves vulnerable. As if they're constantly asking to be tormented.

And something that's always tossed around is "why on earth is he inflicting so much pain on the city? What more could he want when he has the girl, the nice cars, the wealth, the adoration and fear of many". Simple answer: I'm never satisfied. I am the darkest side of humanity. I am the side of people that make them fear themselves, that they tuck away and never let come out. I was once a simple man and look what I've become, an example of pure, unadulterated evil. I am proof that anyone can snap, anyone can turn to what I've become with the right motivation. People love to think they'd never ever go as far as I've gone off the deep end. One of my priorities is showing those same people that they indeed can turn cruel, they just need a little nudge in the right direction. Everything I do, everything I speak into existence has to be perfect. Hence why I make my targets really matter.

"How is Barbara?" I ask Gordon. "She outta the hospital yet?"

No answer.

"I am curious about one thing, commissioner," I rub my jaw from the hand cuffs on my hands.

"And what's that?" He asked me and I licked my lips.

"What hurt worse? Knowing your precious child was in pain? Or seeing her naked, broken, bloodied body in all those nice pictures I showed you of her after I shot her?"

He yells, struggling against the Bat again.

"He's looking for a reaction, Jim." Bats growled to the man. "Don't give him one."

I just smirked and relaxed, not taking my eyes off of the two.

"Quite the opposite, Bsts. I just enjoy making myself laugh." I burst into fits of laughter at the thought of Barbara Gordon's paralysis.

"You can laugh all you want, clown. But when Harley's shot full of sedatives and shipped to ADX Florence, I doubt you'll be singing the same tune." He threatens and I roll my jaw, my laughter seizing.

"Gonna have to call you bluff, Commissioner. Because you know if you pluck my Harlequin away from me, I'll pluck dearest Barbara away from you."

"You've already paralyzed her. What more could you possibly do? Kill her? You act like she wouldn't want you to take her out of her misery!"

"Oh…well, this is embarrassing. I was talking about your wife, but your pathetic daughter can surely accompany her."

"Get him outta here." Gordon told Batman, not taking his eyes off of me.

I just give him a smug smile, and chuckle in victory as I'm roughly led out of the room.

They didn't understand it. They never tried to. They just see what I do and label it murderous and toss me in a penitentiary. They don't appreciate what I show people. I don't sugarcoat shit, which is something all the "good guys" love to do. Saying shit like "it will be okay" and "you are strong enough to get through this". After my accident, if someone were to tell something like that with my skin searing it's own pigment out, and my hair frying like chicken in a pan with Crisco, I'd knock them dead in their jaw.

I knew it would be a lie. I wasn't okay after my accident, my eyes were opened to what the fuck life truly is and I hated that I was no longer under the spell that I falsely presumed to be a good. Heartbreak is natural in life. Moving on is also natural. What isn't natural is sweeping it under the rug and disguising things as blessings. "This is just a blessing in disguise" is what Harleen Quinzel has tried to convince me when I had her as my psychiatrist. I know the difference in blessings and bullshit. Did I use what happened to show the world how unfair and cruel the world is? Um, yes. Did I enjoy it? Thoroughly.

Anytime I hear someone talk about something horrible that happens, I hear "it's not fair". Okay and? I don't hurt people because it's fair, I hurt people to orchestrate a point beyond human minds to comprehend.


End file.
